Confessions of an Agony Aunt
by Hermy Puckle
Summary: Companion to Ask Calus please read that first!. Explains how Calus came about, and of course, we get some fun with Hermione.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**

**Sadly, t'was JKR who created the HP universe. However, I, a mere mortal, am just playing with them a tad. I will return them soon, promise. Well, except Snape. Sorry, Jo, he's staying with me!**

_A/N: Well, here is the companion to Ask Calus. All of it is completely from Snape's POV. This is the prologue for now. The first chapter will be up in a few days! Loads of thanks for reading!_

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* * *

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**Prologue**

Ugh.

Bleeding Albus is up to something, I just know it. Filius claims I am paranoid but no, I know the headmaster. I can tell when he is about to put me through some asinine torture. It's all in his tone. He gets a very…careful way of speaking when he is sizing you up, measuring the noose.

Like now for instance.

'Severus?' His voice is completely innocent, as any old man's should be. However, the grin on his face gives him away.

The people between us at the Head Table, Minerva, Hagrid, and Poppy, turn to eye me expectantly, the same smiles on their face.

Uh oh, he's got an army on his side. I never had a chance…

Hmm…Do I tell them to sod off and walk away before my life can be made Hell or should I hex them…? That is the question.

As if dipping into her probably extrasensory perception, Minerva puts a hand on my arm, my wand arm too, Damnit, and says, 'Severus? Are you all right; that's a frightening look you are wearing…'

I decide to be brave, unintelligently so, and stand my ground. I look Albus square in the eye and demand, 'What is it?'

He smiles in what he supposes is a grandfatherly way. There is a bit of pork hanging off his fork that he holds over his plate, poised to enter his mouth at any moment. It irritates me. I don't know why. 'I was wondering if I could have a few words with you after supper. There is a matter I wish to discuss with you that I believe you will find valuable.'

Translation: I am about to persuade you, using underhanded tactics, to do something I know you will hate. I don't care though, since it will aid me in my quest to make your life miserable. Bwahahaha.

However, if I refuse to speak with him, he will make my life even WORSE.

There is a reason the Dark Lord feared him.

So, signing my life away, I agree.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry so short. Chapter one will be MUCH longer, I promise! And upcoming chappies will have more Ask Calus articles. Please review! I want to know how to make this better!_

_Oh, and by the way, this was done completely sans beta. I have someone betaing now but I couldn't wait to post this! So I am REALLY hoping to have some honest feedback on this! _


	2. It's So Mad, It Just Might Work!

Disclaimer: Snape and Albus aren't mine. Neither is Hogwarts. Anything you recognise (except if you are recognising it from Ask Calus) is Jo Rowlings.

* * *

'It's only an idea, Severus!' tries Albus as I stride out of his office. 'And a good one at that!'

I stand on the top step of the spiral staircase, waiting for it to start to twist, lowering me down. 'Albus, you are mad. This idea, is mad. Not only is it ill planned, it's _mad_.'

'But—'

'The answer is _no_.' The staircase still hadn't moved. I glare up at my boss. 'You are holding the staircase, aren't you? Albus, I demand you release me at once.'

He doesn't move. In fact, the only thing that changes is his expression, which turns to pity.

_Here we go…_

'Severus, I believe it will be good for you!' He puts a large hand on my shoulder. Damn, his hand is cold. I can feel the iciness though my teaching robes. 'You have always been very opinionated and you can share your views with London.'

I turn to him. Really, the man needs to be carried off to St. Mungo's. Immediately. Besides, I believe Lockhart might be getting lonely. 'London does not care about my thoughts. And even if they did, do you think I want _more_ fans? I can't go the bloody Three Broomsticks without having some lonely homemaker throwing her bosoms in my face and asking for an autograph! If Potter didn't enjoy the celebrity status so much, I would feel sorry for him!'

'Most men would enjoy having women fall all over them!' Protests the elderly mad. Honestly, he actually _believes_ the rubbish he spews. That is quite terrifying, really. Almost makes me wish I hadn't brought him back to life, the wanker.

'I would hardly classify the hags that follow me around as women.'

'Anonymous,' Says a detectably whiney voice. No, not Albus', but his partner in crime. Out of the Headmaster's office, steps the tiny, balding man with pale, watery blue eyes.

'Sorry?' Amazing, my patience. A weaker wizard would have hexed the lot of them by now.

He steps forward, determination on his face. 'Advice columnists are kept completely anonymous. Otherwise, people wouldn't write in. As for your opinion, I think it would be refreshing. Something new.'

This man, Grayson Denis, looks me up and down in a manner that can only be described as appraising. As if I were a particularly fancy looking broom. Naturally, the ever better slither-outer, I counter, 'And after your Agony Aunt quit, the most obvious choice was me?'

'No…' he admits.

Ha!

'We actually set up loads of interviews. However, none of them seemed right for the position. My daughter actually suggested you.'

_Fantastic, another hag._

'Indeed.' I know how condescending I sound. And it's on purpose.

The tiny man nods furiously, completely oblivious to my tone. Albus, however, is not. He settles for glaring at me. Good. Mr. Dennis says, 'She claims to have been your student recently. She says you have a very blunt, honest manner about you. I have found her to be correct.'

Blunt. Honest. As if these were good things. But who was his daughter? I don't recall a Dennis. 'Might I inquire after the name of your daughter?'

There is confusion in his face as I have obviously taken him off guard.

'You don't know?'

I could swear he almost glowers up at me. However, he manages to compose himself and answers, 'Lola. Lola Winchester.'

_Winchester…Winchester…_Ah yes. The blond spark of a child who never failed to smile. Irritating chit.

'Severus,' Albus pulls me out of my memory. 'Since there are two potions professors now, I could easily, if you were to take this position, give only the NEWT-level classes and let Horace take the others.'

Damn, that got my attention. Only having to teach students that are worthy? Not having to deal with irritating first years? The possibilities swim gloriously around in my mind. _'Sorry, Albus, I can't chaperone the Hogsmeade trip. I have far too much advice to give.'_ Or _'I know, Horace, that I am rarely in Hogwarts, except for class time and when I am sleeping; I just have so much work to do for the article, you understand.'_ Suddenly, the idea didn't seem so mad after all. I almost smile. I can't let them know how happy the prospect has made me, however, lest they realise my weakness.

'I do not have proper journalism education.' It's true.

Almost reluctantly, Dennis nods. 'Albus assures me that you are more than capable of writing plainly, and clearly.' He steps forward. 'To be honest, Mr. Snape, we are desperate. No one we have interviewed is correct for the job. They were either too soft, knew nothing of what they were talking about, or far too longwinded, rambling on and on and on. The other few who seemed right for the position demanded far too high a pay. To be honest, sir, you are my last hope. At least until we manage to find someone.'

Moving. Really moving. As moving as a boulder (for those of you dunderheads who don't understand what point I am trying to make, boulders aren't moving. Thus, Dennis' speech is not moving).

'How much will I make?' I ask.

He totters off a figure that is quite low, though paired with my professor wages, makes for pretty decent money. That and the not-being-around-students, I am practically thinking of accepting the position full-time. And no Albus to meddle in my every activity! Who would have thought I would ever find happiness? I am beginning to think that maybe the Gods didn't just create me as an amusing from of sadistic amusement.

And so, I agree. Arrangements are made for me to start in one week, when their present agony aunt will be gone.

* * *

A/N: If I know myself, my chappies will get longer. Some might be shorter, but some will definitely longer. Tis Hallowe'en right now, as I am writing this and I keep having to get up to hand out candy. But please read and enjoy and I will try to get the next chappie up in a week at the most!

Oh, and R&R!


	3. Of Folkdancing and Wrinkly Prunes

Disclaimer: What is from the HP books is not mine.

* * *

'This is your office.' Dennis gestures dramatically towards a plain wooden door.

We are in the Headquarters of the Daily Prophet. The candles along the walls are charmed to glow blaringly bright, blinding any unaware passers through.

The office to which he is indicating is smaller than mine at Hogwarts is. The walls are tan and plain, with only prints of paintings adorning strategic points on the walls. One with a bee pollinating a flower will have to go. The buzzing is already driving me mad.

In the centre of the room is a large oak desk, quills sitting in a neat row of different coloured inkpots along the right side. On the left, there is already a vase full of different scrolls.

I look at Dennis from the corner of my eye. He is inconspicuously averting his.

Bloody fantastic. Not even two minutes working here and he is already dumping work on me as Albus always did.

The Albus impersonator turns to me and says cheerily (_too_ cheerily, in my opinion, for a sane person), 'Well, I will leave you to work. Oh, your editor will visit in about an hour, to discuss some things. You require your own private one; all Agony Aunts do.' He shrugs and turns to go.

Wait.

'I won't be referred to as "Agony Aunt",' I firmly tell him.

Slowly, as if trying to delay as long as possible, he turns and levels his eyes on me. 'It would confuse the readers…'

'I could care less. I need a new name.'

He sighs and nods. 'I will let you and your editor sort that out. If you don't have anything I approve of by Tuesday, it will be Agony Aunt.'

Whoa.

I thought he was this weak man and then he says _that_ with all the stubbornness of Minerva. Even his lips look like hers: thin as that nerve of mine upon which Potter enjoys bouncing. And Dennis' eyes have that same fire behind them that Minerva's have, that makes one wonder if they are going to grow fangs and go for your throat.

Really, it's a wonder Longbottom didn't fear her instead of me.

'And,' adds Dennis, breaking into my musings (which never occurred until _after_ the war. Hmm… I must have some sort of post-traumatic problem). 'You are not to tell a soul who you are. It is between Albus, you, me, and Lola.'

'Lola?' Why would she need to know?

I have a bad feeling about this…

Just then, there is a loud snap as I suddenly find myself nose-to-nose with a very blurry person. Said person steps back, giggling.

'I have to work on not apparating on top of people.' This she says to herself. 'She' being a short woman with a puff of yellow hair. That hair used to illuminate my dungeons, as if fueled by lightning. The spark of a girl is none other than my old student, Lola Winchester.

_Gods, you like me now, remember? So why_ her

Miss Winchester turns to me and flashes me the largest smile known to man. Really, I can count her teeth. 'Sorry about that, Professor. Do you remember me?'

'Unfortunately,' I grumble, mostly to myself. Not that I care if she is insulted.

Her smile only widens. Stupid chit of a girl used to fancy me when she was my student (and no, I still, to this day, do not understand what possessed her to do so). I am not being arrogant about it. Any man who had his student, his _Gryffindor_ student show up to classes handing him notes reading, 'You are very fit' and giggling at every insult he threw at her, exchanging the bloody tittles over her 'I's for hearts, would come to the very same conclusion.

Dennis says some mumblings to her, that apparently only persons of the same blood can understand because I heard something along the lines of 'A dragon at the palace of spinach will endeavour to eat chicken.'

I am standing there hoping against anything that the God's didn't hand me mad colleagues. Although if they can find me colleagues more insane then the ones at Hogwarts, I will be shocked.

(Note to Gods: that was not a challenge)

Winchester turns to me. 'My father said you don't want to be called Agony Aunt. Too feminine I suppose?'

I glare at her. I don't know _why_ I glare. Just for the sake of doing so, I suppose. She only grins back.

Damn.

'Please, Miss Winchester, don't tell me you still fancy me.' I know how forward I am being. I know how rude this is. But I have never been one to tiptoe around others' feelings. Why should I? Really, these people need the truth sometime.

She rewards me with an interesting colour display on her face. After I count fourteen shades of pink and red, respectively, she finally stares at my left shoulder and replies, 'I never thought you knew.'

Is she serious?

'Miss Winchester, you were about as subtle as Rubeus in… in anywhere, really,' the last part I add as an afterthought, remembering the times when the half-giant nearly knocked over the Head Table by the mere action of standing up. I return my attention to the situation at hand.

'Ever since the war, I have had bloody… _things_ fancying me. I can't even discipline my class because half of the female body are too busy drooling over my celebrity status to listen. It would be brilliant if I could get away from that here. So, I ask you again, _do you still fancy me?_'

Impressive speech, if I do say so myself. Spoken from the heart.

Winchester looks up at me from under her eyebrows. I suddenly recall a bit of research I had done about werewolves. How wolves, naturally, keep there nose to the ground in order to sniff better. A common sign of a man or woman who is a werewolf is that he keeps his chin tucked in, and he looks like he is looking up at you. This is what Winchester is doing now. Does this mean I am going to have to make Wolfsbane for her too? I must watch for further signs of Homo Lupus.

'No,' she breathes. 'But I did. I guess it was a grim fascination, of sorts. You were so—'

'Enough!' I bark. I don't want a recounting of what about me made her lose all sanity. Although… I could use the knowledge to my advantage, using it on women. Hmmm… another time, perhaps.

I am relieved, though, that I don't have to deal with her. Plus, I spot a ring on her finger, indicating an engagement.

Small favours indeed.

'So do you want another name or not?' The chit demands, hand on hip.

'I believe I said that I do.' Why must I always have these inane conversations with the thickest of people?

'Well,' she said, with sudden brightness (she never could hold onto a mood for long). 'You seem very callous. Always were.'

And in come the obvious statements.

Her eyes go large and she snaps her fingers. Funny, I thought they only did that in books.

Hm.

'Căluş!' She suddenly shouts, practically shaking the room. Really. That women has a set of lungs. 'It's a Romanian folkdance. And it sounds similar to "callous" too!'

'Aren't you intelligent?' I reply. It's better than asking why she is giving me this useless information.

Now she has the nerve to look at _me_ as if _I_ was thick. 'That could be your name! Calus!'

I don't even get a chance to open my mouth before she starts rambling on about the genius of it all. Her father comes back in and readily accepts the name.

It's better than Agony Aunt, I suppose.

* * *

'You can't put that there!' Winchester shrieks into my ear a few hours later. 

'Why not?' I demand, not understanding what is wrong. 'It looks fine to me.'

'You cannot say, "fucking" in a daily newspaper!'

Ok. I scribble out the offending word and scratch 'bleeding' above it. 'Better?'

We are crouched over my desk, where we have been arguing about my response to a letter for the past ten minutes.

She rolls her eyes over to me, giving me that you-cannot-be-serious look. 'You cannot tell a man that he is probably incompetent!'

'It's probably true!' I protest. 'You wanted honesty, there it is.'

'Was it really necessary to insult the size of his… person?'

'He wanted to know why women dumped him frequently.' I shrug. 'That could be the reason.'

'But…' she screwed her face up in disgust. '"Pencil di—?"'

'Again,' I interrupted. 'Wholly necessary.'

'Wrinkly prunes?'

'It could be true.'

She stands up now, hands once again, on her hips. They have been there so frequently that I am wondering if there are magnets. 'Professor Snape, we can't insult the readers!'

'I see no reason why not.'

'They wouldn't come read our paper if we did! They wouldn't write in for fear of being insulted!'

'Look,' I growled at her. 'Your father wanted me to tell the truth. I am doing so. Now, you lot are desperate for an advice columnist and I will walk away now if you don't put that in the paper.'

I am quite delighted to see fear in her eyes. Yes, I still got it. Maybe the damn chit will listen to me from now on.

'Fine. But if my father gets mad, it's all on you.'

I shrug. 'All right for me.'

'Fine,' she spats.

'Really, Miss Winchester, are you back in first year again?' At my remark she turns on her heel and storms out of the room, my responses to letters in hand.

And exiting with her is any chance of a relapse of her fancying me.

Damn, I am good.

* * *

A/N: well, here it is, folks. The next chappie to Confessions.

Thanks to DemonicLimey for the thing on the folkdancing!

The response Snape has to people fancying him is what I think he would do if he found ashwinder or another 'I love Snape' site.

And the bit about wolves looking down is true. I learnt it from Hugh Jackman when he was talking about studying for his role as Wolverine.

Ok, you all know what to do! Let me know what you think! And what could be better!


	4. Severus Snape is a man

_Disclaimer: Snape and Hermione? Not my fabulous creation. The rest, however, are._

* * *

'Severus!' 

Bloody fucking hell, here it comes.

Dennis stands there, in my doorway, clutching the latest issue of the _Daily Prophet_ in one fist and an roll of parchments in the other.

He is looking up at me with half-fury and half-something else. He takes six longs strides toward me—whereas it would only take me half as much to cover the same amount of distance. 'Severus Snape. I cannot believe Lola allowed you to put that into the article!'

I shrug. I am used to getting berated and no matter what I say during Albus' tantrum, nothing helps.

He unrolls the paper and reads off it. '"Dear, Miss Surrey, at your age, you don't have to worry about appearances because no one cares how you look"? Severus, that is downright mean!'

'No.' It's my turn to speak, finally. 'It is honest, just as you requested. Is it not true that a woman of 127 needs not dress to impress?'

'Yes, but…' The short man nibbles his lip in search for a better argument.

'And is it also not true that she should not be going after her forty-seven year-old gardener?'

Dennis purses his lips. 'Still, you could have broken it to them more gentley. _However,_' He raises his voice to keep me from speaking. 'We seem to be getting positive feedback.'

What?

He opens an envelope. 'This is from the bloke to whom you said had wrinkly prunes. "It turns out, Calus, that you are completely right in your assumption. It's about time they told the truth on here, instead of some psychobabble." And from Melissa of London. "I couldn't stop laughing from the last Agony Aunt—or should I say, Ask Calus—article! You brightened up my day!"

'However,' Dennis practically wagged a finger at me, as if I were a puppy who chewed his shoe. 'Not all of the responses were good. Some even canceled their subscriptions.' He sighed. 'And yet, we have had an eight percent increase in sales in the past week. I suppose you should just keep up the work.'

I am not going to bore you with details on the next few months. My articles become quite controversial and my daily mail increases. They allot more space on the weekends to do an extended article.

Even outside of this, things seem to be going better. The attention is taken off of me, Severus Snape, and focuses on Calus. Instead of passing love notes to me, they write them to Calus. Other newspapers do articles on him; there are daily protests in front of the Headquarters, more cancellations of subscriptions and even more renewals of them. The _Daily Prophet_ has doubled in newsstand sales. Other daily newspapers are trying to compete with Calus, bringing in their own Agony Aunt types. However, for some inexplicable reason, none of them succeeds.

Calus becomes my life. And I still have yet to tell Miss Winchester that she has plucked up a name that is, coincidentally, my middle.

It all settles into a sort of habit.

Until I actually decide to go out with Dennis to lunch.

* * *

Full of Italian food, I stride purposefully back to my office, casting any passersby a venomous glare. All the idiots just assume I am here being interviewed for an article. My faith in the intelligence of the wizarding world has dwindled down to a wisp of smoke. 

On the way, I sign some chit's shirt, who has asked me for an autograph each time she sees me but has finally worn me down… by lifting said shirt to reveal what is underneath.

Such things will knock a man's brain cells out of his head.

My vision is apparently obscured as well, because I end up colliding with something, even though I am staring straight ahead.

'Oof,' Goes the woman and I look down to see her sprawled on her back, looking straight up at the ceiling. From my angle, I do not recognise her at first. It is after I help her to her feet and she gasps, 'Professor Snape?'

Ah. Potter's bushy-haired know-it-all mate. What a lovely day this has turned out to be. Haven't seen the insufferable woman for years and here she is, gawping at me. And the damnable chit will probably want an autograph too.

Hm. Maybe she'll flash me as well.

To get an autograph can't be why she's here.

Oh, fuck.

Has she discovered that I'm Calus? She'd be able to read the article and see that my responses somehow have my psychological fingerprint that undoubtedly lead her to me. Because the bloody swot has always been able to pull clues out of nothing.

So I ask, 'Miss Granger, what are you doing here?'

I study her face in anticipation of her response, expecting to hear, 'I know the truth, professor. I know who you are.' However, whether or not this is what she is about to say, I don't find out. Because my stupid editor suddenly walks up to us.

Miss Winchester gives me a quick, questioning glance before addressing Miss Granger. 'There you are, Lucy Puckle. You are a difficult person to track down.'

Who?

Miss Winchester looks down suddenly and both Miss Granger and I follow her gaze.

Bloody Fucking Hell, we are still clasping hands, from when I helped her to her feet.

She looks at me in that I-caught-you-red-handed way before smiling at Miss Granger. 'I just wanted to tell you that I will be leaving early to help my sister. So, I'll see you tomorrow, ok?' A lie! A blatant lie! Can Miss Granger not see that?

Apparently not because she only nods and the liar Apparates away.

Leaving me holding the hands of a very red-faced witch.

Who is apparently going by Lucy Puckle these days.

I smirk. I believe I might have stumbled across something useful. Something fun. 'Lucy Puckle?'

Whoa. I have never seen anyone's skin pigment go from cherry-red to ghastly white. Her small mouth hangs open slightly and even her nostrils widen in shock.

And then she's back to her regular appearance.

How the fuck did she do that?

She sighs and tugs me closer to the wall. I follow, amused.

She starts out by telling me that she works for _The Quibbler_, which I have heard through my annoyingly proud colleagues. And then she drops the bomb. '…undercover to discover the identity of one, Calus.'

She doesn't know it's me! Some how, some way, she hasn't figured it out! And here I was thinking I would have to leave this job that I'm beginning to like because of someone knowing my secrets. Well, I could always blackmail her. Hmm... That hardly works on Gryffindors. I'd have to Obliviate her. That spell was never my strong suit, but I could manage.

I'm now curious. Miss Granger never pegged me as the type to follow current trends and fads and yet, here she is, following one. So, I ask, 'The advice columnist? Why?'

She shrugs. She never just shrugs! Then again, neither did I until after the war.

Hmm, they never tell you about these after burns in stories. Only the grief, not the complete character changes.

'Well,' she says, snapping me out of another reverie. 'What do we know about him except that he's a complete arsehole? I think we all deserve to know who feels he's important enough to give such horrible advice to people.'

So she _isn't_ following the trend! She here on one of her bloody missions to 'better the world'. Damn, I had thought she was still after the House-elves.

'Also,' she adds. 'Ginny is quite fancying him.'

What? I can't help but laugh at that one (inside of course). An evil thought comes to mind. Miss Weasely—er, Potter, fancies Calus, eh?

Miss Granger suddenly exclaims, exasperatedly, 'Imagine, fancying someone who you haven't even seen, heard, or even know the name of! I really feel I must nip this thing in the bud.'

I need more. 'She does? Why?'

She looks like she's about to answer. She really does. But then she suddenly eyes me suspiciously. 'Why are _you_ here, Professor?'

Damn.

I am here to find Calus too? No. Er, I could go with the same excuse the others have. It will have to do. I must be careful in my wording, lest she see through the façade. I set my face so that no emotion escapes and answer, 'Even though it is none of your concern, I am here because some person wanted an interview with me and would not let me rest until I agreed.' I wait, half-glaring at her in hopes of… I don't know, actually. It just seems right, I suppose.

I discover that I am holding my breath and let it out after she suddenly says, 'Professor, since _The Quibbler_ has been trying to get a hold of you for a while, do you think that I could have an interview with you?'

Tuh. 'I'm sure you will have your interview with me soon.' It's the truth, because I know that with her looking for Calus' identity and me being here, she will eventually figure it out. That girl is too smart for her own good.

Suddenly, Miss Winchester reappears. Her eyes twinkle in a very Dumbledore-esque matter as she says to me, 'If you two are done holding hands, I need to borrow Lucy.'

Fuck. I hadn't realised that I didn't let go of her hand! What the bleeding Merlin's Beard is wrong with me?

I couldn't even look at her when I said, 'I need to go.' Mortified, I just Apparated into my office.

Damn. Why on earth did I do that? Usually I am just so together and now? Now, I am avoiding her gaze like some nancy-boy!

With a groan, I set to work and answer some more articles.

* * *

A few hours later, in comes Miss Winchester. And her smile is so large 

it's frightening. I can count her molars. 'Hello, Professor…' she all but sings.

And then she floats out.

Bloody hell, has she gone mad?

I get the same treatment for the next two days.

Then, on day two, I agree to go out with Dennis for lunch. We

* * *

sit in a small café and suddenly, he says, 'I hear you and your girlfriend are quite the couple.' 

I stop mid-sip and stare at him as if it will help what he just said make sense. 'My girlfriend?'

He doesn't answer and starts babbling on about the upcoming weekend and how he is thinking of extending the space for my article again. He speaks so thoroughly, he doesn't give me a chance to interject and ask about my supposed girlfriend. Well, I could hex him, but I rather like my job.

On my way back, ignoring the cheeky grin from the chit who flashed me, I find my chest getting crashed into. Again. I grab her by the upper parts of her arms to steady her and then smirk not-quite-so-inwardly as I recall her reasoning for being here. 'Miss Puckle.'

I am delighted with a slight reddish tint to her face as she rubs her palms down her conservative skirt. After a bit, she looks back up at me and asks in false cheeriness, 'Professor! Why are you still here?'

Damn. I have to think up something. I simply tell her that my interview was a multi-part interview. However, during this, she kept staring at me in a dreamy sort of way, with her head cocked to one side, a slight light in her eyes as she studied me thoughtfully.

It makes me nervous.

Thankfully, Dennis appears, but doesn't speak to me. Instead he turns to Miss Granger, who is comically taller than him. He asks her if she would mind speaking to him. Then to me he says, 'I just need a moment, Mr. Snape, then you can have her back.'

Mr. Snape?

Oh, _no_, we are going to have to have a talk later as to how I want to be addressed properly in public. Because that sounds like my wretched father.

Mr. Snape, _indeed_.

I watch as he says something to her in a low voice and she nods. Suddenly, I can't see them anymore. There, in my vision is practically luminescent yellow hair.

Miss Winchester steps back. 'Sorry.'

'Are you certain you obtained your Apparation license legally?' I demand. Honestly! The girl is a splinching waiting to happen!

Instead of rolling her eyes, she smiles at me. 'You know…' Bloody hell, she's got that singsongy voice again.

This can_not_ be good.

'Lucy's been kind of clammed up about your relationship. Tell me, how is that you went from being her professor to her boyfriend?'

Her _what???_

This would explain the little smiles she's been giving me and Dennis' mention of my 'girlfriend.' Ok, _those_ are cleared up. But… 'I don't know what—'

Suddenly, I find myself dragged through a doorway— almost banged into the door, I might add — and into my office of all places. By my 'girlfriend', Miss Granger, after a quick word to Miss Winchester: 'Excuse us, won't you? I have to speak with Severus on important matters.'

Severus?

I am practically thrown into the room and onto my desk. I lean on it. She's blushing and I am learning to enjoy the sight of this, since a flushed Granger is an _attractive_ Granger.

And for all of those that are grossed about this, I _am_ a man. We cannot turn a blind eye to the attractive female form.

And here she is, flushing for only one reason. 'Is there a reason you've been telling people you're dating me?' She looks ready to lie, so I add, 'That small woman wasn't the first, either. Mr. Dennis also commented on how well we looked together. I had taken it as madness on his part but now I learn it was your doing. Why?'

If I had a heart, the crestfallen look on her face would be breaking it. Or I wouldn't know actually, maybe it wouldn't. Emotions are alien to me.

Then she seems to rethink things and tilts her head to one side, like a dog trying to figure out a particular trick. Then she smiles.

Whoa.

The confident smile she has on her face is terrifying and oddly exciting. Like Longbottom in my class.

She briefly explains that she is using me as a cover up—ironic, unbeknownst to her— I respond saying that she just doesn't want to be discovered as a fraud. As I predicted, this causes her to flush in anger.

'Fraud?' She repeats, glaring. 'I'm not a fraud; I am _undercover_.'

Oh, bloody hell, same thing.

She's up there, against the doorframe looking like a cat frozen in time. I slowly walk over to her, enjoying the look of fear in her eyes and how she tries to press herself into the door further. I put my hands on each side of her head and level my head with hers. I look right into her eyes and say, 'Don't skirt around the issue, Miss _Puckle_, and answer the question.'

Whoa. The word 'skirt' reminds me that she's _wearing_ a skirt. That makes me slightly hot under the collar for some reason. Just the remembrance that all that is under there are knickers lead my thoughts downward, I am embarrassed to admit. I don't even hear her as I look down at her ensemble: long pencil skirt and high-collared jumper. The latter is quite snug and though small, her breasts are evident.

Damn, I am slipping. I don't want to be caught staring at her chest! I look back at her eyes to find that she, thankfully, has been avoiding mine through her explanation that I would somehow, being her boyfriend, or the façade of me being her boyfriend, would help cover up her real reason for being there.

This would actually put her closer to finding Calus than she realises. So I am going to have to somehow give her a decoy or something. I could, I suppose, just tell her that I _won't_ go along being her faux boyfriend, but for some reason, this doesn't occur to me. So I tell her that it would actually help me.

I don't regret it with the smile she gives me. Damn. I am reminded of the fact that I currently have her pressed against the door and was just recently fantasizing about… I don't know actually. I didn't allow myself to go into full fantasy mode.

I change the subject and ask how she plans on finding Calus.

She shrugs. 'All I have to do is write him a letter, one I knew would capture his attention and casually bring up the subject of my letter to various people and study their reactions. This would have to be before the next issue came out.' There's that unspoken word at the end of her explanation: _Naturally_.

Hmm.

'What are you going to write about?' I ask.

'I already did.' Damn, another smile. Knock it the fuck off! 'It was something along the lines of a person with an all-sorts paranoia or phobia.'

Hmm… This might be fun. I need that decoy though and then I can have fun.

I step back, remembering, again my previous thoughts. As I look her over from head to toe, I realise she isn't all that bad looking – her face is that odd sort of prettiness. It's not the type seen in Witch Weekly, but it's interesting. The kind that makes you want to look at her for hours because every time you look from her head to her toe, you've found that you've already forgotten small details that makes up what she truly looks like.

And when she blushes! For some reason, this just makes her _more_ attractive.

But was I going to pursue a relationship with her? Of course not. Even if it weren't for our ages, there's our past. Sure, she's smart, but she's young. I can barely stand the chits _three_ years under me and she's _twenty-one_!

I glance at the clock. 'You'd better go since your break is nearly over.'

She nods and turns the knob and I make it as though I am following her out. Before she can step three feet from my office, Miss Winchester suddenly snaps her out of my view and yanks her down the hall. I wait until they are out of sight before returning to my office.

Tough day.

* * *

A/N: There you lot go. I have the next chappie for A Spinster's Experiment coming soon and hope to get it out by this weekend.

And sorry for the language.

Can you believe that Ask Calus got rejected from fanfiction because they say that 'Calus' should be spelt callous?

Anyway, hope this didn't completely suck.

Oddly enough, THIS chappie was betaed! By our very own Melissa AKA: SeverusFan

ROUND OF APPLAUSE!!!!!!!

Oh, and review you lovely people! Always love hearing from you!


	5. Decoy

**Disclaimer: Still not mine :(**

* * *

_Dear Calus,_

_I am thirteen years of age and a buff boy I met at a park (who is fifteen) asked me out and then to have sex. I immediately said yes. I am nervous (and the date is coming soon) but really want to. I'm scared of getting pregnant though. I could use a johnny but what if it doesn't work? really like him. HELP!_

_- Safe Girl_

**_Safe,_**

_**What. The. Bleeding. Hell. Is. Wrong. With. You? You are THIRTEEN years old. A CHILD? And you want to shag some bloke you JUST MET? Tell me, is your mum a common prostitute? Because that's what whores do: they shag the first bloke they meet. And that's what it sounds like you are doing. And this stupid 'boy' that you met is probably a closet gay who is overly permiscuious in order to hide his nancyboy tendencies. Go play with dolls and quit being a bint-in-training.** _

_Dear Calus,_

_I'm twenty years old and have fallen for a bloke fifteen years older than me who is also Asian. My parents are v. racist and def. won't approve of his age either. What do I do?_

_- Jane Eyre-style Person_

**_Jane,_**

_**You are HOW OLD? Twenty? And you are still worried about what mummy and daddy will think? Listen, you can do what you want and if they try to interfere, call them racist (there's a word I wish to put here but they won't let me. It starts with 'p' and ends with 'lonkers') and to bugger off. And you! You shouldn't be trying to live under their ruling for they have you on a leash! You need to grow up. Shag a bloke a hundred years older than you for all I care. Just bugger off and quit writing me stupid whiney letters.** _

My search for a decoy is a tough one, for I am not sure who I can trust. I look at workers at the _Daily Prophet_ but am still unsure who wouldn't be likely to run off and tell their friends who I am or worse, Dennis. I quietly observe person after person, even female (which would definitely throw Miss Granger for a loop) but no one strikes me as particularly trustworthy.

However, I have always subscribed to the 'Good Things Come to Those Who Wait' school of thought. And it doesn't let me down (and the gods were once again, as in their bipolar tendencies, happy with me) this time.

For, out of the blue yonder, my old Uni flatmate floos me.

I am at my desk scribbling furiously to an idiotic girl who's husband wants her to have a threesome with him and his mate when Caleb's head suddenly appears. In my fireplace, not in the girl and her husband's.

'Severus! Old mate! How are you?' He looks a few wrinkles older than he was last I saw, but this doesn't hit my concious just yet.

I am too busy having a heart attack.

I'm not one for hysterics but when someone just pops in unannounced and starts yelling your name, your bound to jump a touch.

I recover very easily, however, and calmly ask, 'Caleb, what in gods's name has possessed you to floo me at this hour after not seeing each other for years?'

Caleb smirks. 'Still the same, aren't you? Well, I know how you loathe roundabout answers so allow me to explain--'

'Please do.'

'--I was reading the paper the other day and stumbled across and interesting article. Ask Calus? The advice-columnist was particular keen on berating this poor man about his lack of a set of braincells. I remembered a highly similar rant from _you_, Severus. What a coincidence! And then the next day, another familiarity. This Calus person called a girl a know-nothing bint. Well now, I recall you refering to Yancy Green with those exact words. I also remembered that _your _middle name was Calus. Now, isn't that a load of interesting coincidences?'

Caleb and I are exact opposites. He's highly talkative and social and upbeat where as I . . . am not. However, we were perfect flatmates as in many ways, he understood me. Somehow, through no assistance of my own, he suddenly grew to be able to predict me and let my insults bounce right off him. Unlike Albus, he didn't try to manipulate me in any way, and thus, we got along. After Uni, he moved to Scottland. Wrote me letters which I never answered. Which was fine, for he even said in the letters he knew I'd read them and then throw them away, which was what I was doing. He only stopped writing a few months ago.

Another reason we got along, and I tolerated, possibly even liked the bloke, was because he was intelligent, terrifyingly so. As you can see.

I sigh. 'Yes, it's me.'

He chuckles and his face disappears. Moments later, all five and a half feet of him appear in my house, complete with soot. He, uninvited (for he knows I'm not a gracious host, and never aspire to be), takes a seat opposite me. 'Well, then. I must say I'm surprised. Severus Snape, Agony Aunt. I'm surprised you don't wear glasses with beaded strings attatching it to your neck.'

'Oh, fuck off,' I tell him, grumbling. 'Who have you told?'

'About your secret love of old hag glasses? No one.' He laughed at his own joke. 'Don't worry, Severus, your secret's safe with me.'

That's when I feel hit over with a Longbottom. I trust him. I do. He wn't tell if he says he won't (would have been in bloody Hufflepuff had he gone to Hogwarts). And he knows me from the innards to the outards.

I grin slowly.

He matchs my grin. 'You have something up that sleeve of yours, don't you? I recognise that grin. It's a scheming grin, that is.' He leans forward conspiritably. 'Who are we tormenting now?'

I explain the Miss Granger concept. Or I try. Without his constant interruptions (something that always irritated me about him).

'So, how do you know this woman?'

'She was my student. As I was saying, she was there to--'

'And she's smart, you say?'

'Yes. She was there to try to discover Calus's identity as you had. I was shocked that she hadn't yet--'

'Are you shagging her?'

'Shut up.'

'Are you?' he presses.

'No, I am not. That would be morally wrong.'

He challenges me however. 'Since when you do things on moral ground?'

He's right but I snap, 'I've changed.' And finally continue on to my plan.

At the end, he asks, 'So, how will you get me the job there?'

'I'll tell Dennis the truth.'

' . . . which is?'

I should have seen this trap coming but I haven't seen him in years and thus, am a touch out of practice. 'Which is that I have run into someone, who he thought was my girlfriend, who will surely discover my true identity.'

He nods thoughtfully. 'I see.'

Translation: I don't believe a word of what you are saying regardless if it is clearly the truth.

I don't press however as I dont' really care to know what he is thinking. 'So will you do it?'

He nods slowly. 'I sure will.'

We meet up the next day with Dennis, who allows him to start the day after that. I leave work early to brief Caleb on things.

'I need you to act as I would. Respond to her and everyone else, in a rude matter. Also, you need to play the bit of a fan. Act as though you too are on my tail. Give her information, only if she asks for it, but make it information she clearly will already know. Or information, true information, that won't lead her anywhere. Such as, I live in the north.'

'Ah, but what does she look like, so I know?'

'Oh. About five-three. Wild brown hair, curly. Brown eyes. Thin. Small breasts. Slightly nasal voice.'

'I see.'

There it is again!

I take out a sheet of paper. 'Here is what is coming in next weeks artical. She wrote it herself to try to catch someone making a reference.'

'Good plan,' he commented, looking it over. 'Too damn bad she told the wrong person.'

I agree, thanking the gods. 'If I hadn't known, this would surely have given me away.

'Anyway, find a way to bring this up, so she suspects you.'

And the plan is set.

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It's not until the day of the release of the edition of which I was speaking that she makes her move into my entrapment.

Caleb reports the events at the end of the day.

'Pretty girl, I must say. Shag her. Anywho, She sat across from me and simply stared. I didn't know what to do so I did something you might do, if you were a touch kinder. I started talking to her about psychology. Poor girl. I felt so bad about interrupting her by snapping. Honestly, I dont' know how you sleep at night. Oh, yes I do. You heartless fuck, you. Anyway, she snapped back, cheeky girl.'

I recall a few events where this surfaced. I get a perverse joy when people (minus Potter) stand up to me. I mean, it happens so rarely.

He continues on the explain a psycholgy lesson he gave her, including the reference to her letter. I have to laugh a bit when he discribes the look on her face when he did this. He even accused her of coming on to him.

'I wouldn't do that!' I have to say indignantly.

'Oh, yes you would. Just to torment the girl.'

Ok, true. But for some reason, not Miss Granger.

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I get the startlement of my existance when I walk into my office the next day during lunch, however. I stride in to find, to my shagrin, Miss Granger leaning seductively into Caleb. Later on, what he tells me of his version is quite laughable. But at the moment of my seeing her flirting with him, my stomache goes sour. Until I notice the awkwardness in her stance and I realise what they were talking about when I walked in. Then I have to fight from grinning.

'Am I interrupting something?' Though, somewhere, I wonder if she fancies him.

She looks as guilty as a cat who just got caught climbing the drapes. I hear Caleb mutter what I later learn to be his clever way of putting her further off. To which she responds: 'He's not Calus, He's a friend of mine.' At this point, Caleb makes an awkward departure as Miss Granger watches after him as though she were a castaway watching a departing ship.

I stand there and wait for her to explain. She doesn't and settles for merely shifting her weight a few times.

'I don't mean to pry but he doesn't seem your type.'

The story she tells me has Caleb and I cackling like schoolboys later. Apparently she got this book to help her seduce a man. This was her plan to find out if Caleb is Calus. I couldn't hold back the laugh and had to grasp the door handle to keep from falling over.

She glowers at me. 'I hardly believe it is that funny.'

Oh it is, though. I play with her a bit until she looks completely irritated.

And then . . . loose lips sink ships.

'When I made certain your letter was in the article, I had expected entertainment but surely not at this level.'

Oops.

She asked for clarification but I smoothly changed the subject. I told her to come to me for advice next time she has a suspect and wishes to act on it.

She repeated her question for clarification.

Then I decided to do what Caleb had done, give her enough information to lead her down the wrong path. I concocted a story about how it was Calus who was interviewing me.

See, have you ever seen a vaudeville act where someone was pretending to be two people, but, for obvious reasons, the two people were never in the same room? See, I put myself and Calus together in one place, so to speak.

When I tell her this, she completely blows her top. 'WHAT?! How long?'

I smirk. 'The entire time.'

'And you let me make a fool out of myself?' She honestly doesn't think I'd do something like this?

'Why didn't you tell me?' She continues to demand. 'You knew what I was trying to do!'

I tell her bits of the truth. 'It was promising to be a good show,' meaning her going around trying to find, well, me. Another Freudian slip emerges, however. 'If I tell anyone, I could get sacked.'

I grimace inwardly.

Confused, she asks, 'From Hogwarts?'

Again, I smoothly changed the subject. 'At least it was me and not your friend Lola who caught you two.'

When I came around to telling her he was the one interviewing me, she brightened up and begged me to tell her who he was. The sight of her begging made me _momentarily_ consider asking for sexual favours in return. However, I knew this would result in my bruising from her. Not sexual acts.

Instead, I said, 'No.'

'I won't even write the article or anything!' She explained, 'I'll just use my knowledge to tell Ginny! And she's good at keeping secrets! Not at all like Lola!'

'No.'

'You must!' She yelled and immediately realised her mistake. I wasn't about to let it go.

'And if I don't, what are you going to do? Seduce me?'

To my joy, she seems to think it over a bit. I find myself hoping she would. Hey, like I said, males don't turn down seducing unless by an ugly bint.

On this train of thought, my mouth takes on a life of it's own. 'Miss Granger, that book you have, that _Twit _book is complete rubbish.'

Shut up!

I suddenly find myself leaning over her very provocatively. At this point, I didn't fight it was it was a nice position, so long as I was able to hold off a growing SOMETHING. 'You don't need to do all this drivel to seduce a man. All you have to do is shove a man against a wall and kiss him passionately,' I say. Damn images attack me, making the SOMETHING very hard to control. 'And no man,' I went on, "would be able to refuse the attention of a beautiful woman.'

Ok, that bit wasn't so bad, until I realise I was nearly trying to seduce _her_. Not that it'd work, mind you, if her wide eyes are anything to go by.

I suddenly hear a familiar voice outside the door, that which I, for once, am happy to hear, if only partially (happy).

When we step out to be greeted by Miss Winchester, I put my arm around Miss Granger's waist. I dont' know why, I just do.

The doofy blonde wants to invite Miss Granger and I on a double date of sorts. I nearly have the lips of acceptance past my lips when Hermione turns her down.

When Miss Winchester's gone, I ask Miss Granger why she turned her down.'

She shrugs. 'I didn't think you'd want to.'

I then do something that shocks me. I lie (not the lying part that is shocking, but the reason). I lie and say that the reason 'Lola' wants to ask us on the double date is because she doubts us. The real reason is because she wants to fuck with me.

I lie because I want to go on this date. I want to be next Miss Granger, talk to her, make her laugh or blush. Call her Hermione. I want, I've finally accepted, to court her, which is impossible, I know.

I, Severus Snape, am a pitiful, pitiful man. Not because I fancy Miss Granger, but because I'm thinking of her constantly, I'm finding, like a love-sick twat. I figured it was simply normal but I found references to her, obscure references to her in anything. I'd see a cloudy sky (in London, I know, _shocking_.) and the colour would remind me of a skirt she'd worn.

I wasn't going to court her, hell no. But I was going to manipulate it so that I could spend as much time with her as possible.

And by miracle and manipulation on my part, I got her to agree to do the double date

I _am_ pitiful.  
.

* * *

**A/N: WOW, I haven't been to this story it AGES. But here I am, sick with a cold, at one AM typing away. Got inspired. Well, read and review, please! I LUUUUUUUUUUUURVE you all!**


	6. Shagging

Disclaimer: I am not JKR. I want to be, but am not. Sorry.

* * *

_Dear Calus,   
Recently, my daughter has shown an interest in Muggle object/customs/similar. I thought nothing of it and figured it was a face or idle curiousity. However, she told me yesterday that she wants to leave the wizarding world forever and live as a Muggle. We've been really close up until now and she doesn't hate me as other teens her age (sixteen) do THEIR mothers. What should I do?  
- Witch with Rogue Daughter_

_**Rogue,  
Your idiot of a child wants to leave home? Probably an act of rebellion to get back at you. All children do this at some point. Also, there could be an idiot male (or female, if she goes that way). Let the girl go. Soon she'll be on her arse begging for her wand back. Better yet, SNAP her wand so that when she inevitably changes her mind, she'll find herself feeling hopeless until she buys a new wand.  
**__  
Dear Calus,  
I'm twenty-one and am dating my mum's friend. We love each other and are tired of keeping it a secret but are terrified at the reaction of my mum. What do I do?  
- Dating a Desperate Housewife_

_**Dating,  
HAHAHAHAHA! My, my, this is something out of a late-night movie. Dear me, I haven't heard anything this funny in . . . ever, actually. You are dating some wrinkly old hag? How many wrinkles do you have to dig through to shag her? Do her breasts sometimes hit you in the ankles when you two walk together? Don't get too excited in bed as you might break her hip.   
**_  
_**Oh, honestly, just tell your mum. You'll probably take joy in the face she makes when you break the news. Be sure to send a picture!**_

I've come to terms with the fact that I sort of have a split personality. It's a day/night style problem. I'll lie in bed and have a fantastic idea but then wake up and wonder what sort of madness I inhaled. This will happen vice versa too.

Which is what happened when I lay down in bed the night after Miss Granger and I make 'the date'.

_You're lusting after your student, Severus. Think of what Albus would say. _

_Who gives a fuck?_

_And if she found out, if Miss Granger discovered your perversion, imagine her reaction. She'd be disgusted, appalled, grossed-out--_

_I get it, alright? She won't find out. I don't intend on acting on my feelings. I mean, I'm male. I lust after young attractive, SMART women. It happens. I'm not going to try to shag her as this would severely fuck up MY day since I know Potter and Weasely would be on my doorstep after I even STARTED to try to come on to her._

_You call THIS not acting?_

_I'm allowed to enjoy her presence when I can. As long as she, nor anyone else, ever finds out why._

I must be as insane as they all say I am.

And by 'they' I mean the general public.

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Mrs. Potter nee Weasely has officially become one of my favourite people. Of which there are three.

I'm in Madame Malkin's when I feel a tap on my arm. I spin around expecting that annoying saleswoman with the gap-teeth pretending to try to help me while simultaneously pushing her breasts up with her forearms and batting her hideously long eyelashes (they reach out about a foot, I swear) in what she probably thinks is a come-hither appearance but looks more like a constipated banshee. Fortunately (tentatively, since Mrs. Potter at this moment was merely the lesser of two evils), it was my former student.

'Hello, Professor!' She grins like a Cheshire cat person. 'How are you?'

Throughout my life, anyone asking me how I am is a sure sign that they want something, or have something on me. Either way, it's in my best nature to get as far away from said person as soon as possible.

'Fine.' My voice betrays just the right hint of animosity with a dash of annoyance and a smudge of loathing. An understated, yet potent combination that I have found works in most cases. I say most because, before this particular instance, it has worked faithfully.

However, somehow I've forgotten to realise that a child of Molly has to be a very headstrong and stubborn.

And this damned chit _has_ to remind me.

'Aren't you going to ask me how I am?' she quips.

I move to another rack. 'No.'

Silence. I don't dare look up but I know she's standing beside me still. Maybe if I ignore her for long enough, she'll go away.

I move to yet another rack and realise I have been looking at the female section the entire time. Hm, I _wondered_ why there seemed to be an explosion of violets and fuchsias. I assumed it was the latest style, as probably proclaimed in a magazine called, _Dressings for Chavs and Poufs, _or similar.

As though I intended to be looking at the female clothes (for my non-existent sister, if anyone asks), I meander over to the proper side, and go for the Ominous Corner for Darkly Clad Individuals.

Mrs. Potter follows like the insipid loyal puppy she is. 'Are you getting new robes for your date with Hermione?'

'It's not a date,' I snap automatically before mentally cringing. I finish up with, 'And these aren't entirely for this occasion. I needed new dress robes already and this is a fine time to get some.' Which is entirely true. As my old set are getting a bit tatty.

She doesn't even hear the last bit. 'It _is_ a date.'

'No,' I correct gently (for I am nothing if not _gentle_). 'It is a business arrangement.'

She appears to think for a bit. 'So, you're _pretending_ to be on a date.'

Finally! 'Yes.' I find a suitable set of dress robes (which look much like my last pair. Ad Minerva says, 'Men don't shop, they replace the clothes they have with the same-but-newer ones') and go to the suits section.

'And so you're doing this despite the fact that you won't get shagged?'

I step into a dressing stall and find her on my heels. 'Miss—Mrs. Potter, you can't follow me in here.' Without another word, I put my hand on her forehead and push her out so that I may shut the door, hoping she will get angry enough to forget her aforementioned question and leave me the hell alone.

If only I were so lucky.

Ha.

She plants her feet right outside my door and repeats her question. 'Why ARE you doing this? What's in it for you?'

'Plenty.' Vague and satisfying. _Damn_, I'm good.

'But no shag.' She posts it in such a way as, it _sounds_ like a statement, but is really a question.

I smirk. 'Well, if I see a prostitute along the way, I could pick one up.'

Silence and if weren't for the feet visible at the bottom of the door, I'd think she left. But she's merely stunned into silence.

' . . . You can't be serious. Please tell me you aren't serious!'

Groaning, slip my arm out of me sleeve. 'No, if I wanted a shag, I wouldn't pay for it.'

­_'Do _you want a shag?'

'Are you offering?'

_Fan_fuckingtastic. Now she'll think I'm coming on to her. Now the Auror Brigade will show up at my door accusing me of statutory rape and they'll lock me away in Azkaban. On second of thought, I won't give up too much of a fight as I'm very deserving.

I just realised how that sounds. No, I haven't shagged an underage individual (as many are under the impression) but my thoughts recently about my former student are just as bad.

However, my words have the reverse effect and end up benefiting me. Miss Weasely blushes so deeply, I can see her ankles glow rouge.

'I'm a married woman!'

I lift my eyebrow and she can see it through the plywood, apparently.

Stammering pathetically, she tries again. ' . . . N-not that I _would_ offer to sh-shag you . . . I don't do that . . . and you aren't my type . . . and . . .'

To put her out of her misery (and mine) I put my hand up. 'Fine, ok. On with it.'

What she says in reply nearly causes me to inhale my button as I slip my shirt over my head.

'What I _mean_ is if you are interested in Hermione, I could help you get her.'

I throw the door open so quickly, I nearly knock her over. If I opened it slower, she would have had time to move out of the way, a fact I was well aware of when I opened it.

I glower down at her and, in a voice that implied horrifying ramifications if she was fucking with me, demand, _'What.'_

She doesn't answer but instead simply stares at me. I lean against the door patiently for about four seconds before I snap my fingers in front of her face, shaking her out of her reverie.

'Sorry.' I expect her apology to end there but she elaborates. 'You're just . . . ' her eyes drop down. 'You don't have a shirt on.'

I look down. 'By Merlin, you're right! Damn, it's a wonder you weren't in Ravenclaw!'

'I . . . I just . . .'

'You were expecting scales?'

The guilt on her face tells me I think too highly of her intelligence.

'Oh, ­_honestly_.' I need to keep myself away from idiots so as to ease the migraines I get daily. Unfortunately, London seems to hold the lot of them.

Chuffing up the courage, she looks me dead in the nose and says, 'As I was saying, if you want to . . . be with Hermione, I can help you.'

I make the mistake of saying, 'Oh? You are offering to brew me a love potion?'

Of course, she takes me entirely too seriously and gawps, apparently forgetting my half-nakedness. 'You . . . You'd do that?'

I need to lie down.

'A jest, Miss Weasely. Now why would you offer to help me 'get' you friend? And how?'

I mean, who would willingly lower their friend into the clutches of someone like _me_. Unless they were having a row, but if that were the case, still . . . she's loyal. She wouldn't do that.

'Well, see, I care about her. And she actually hasn't had a shag in a long time. She could benefit.'

'No one else would shag her so you came to me, hoping I was desperate?' Who else wouldn't shag her? I can think of no one. No one _male_, I should say. Ok, no _straight SINGLE _male.

She doesn't answer my question. 'And I would help by telling you what she falls for and what she doesn't. Guides.'

'Ok,' I decide. 'Tell me.'

I must make her year because she brightens like a fat kid eyeing a feast. 'Ok, promise not to tell her I told you this stuff?'

'I won't tell her,' I lie.

Tonight is going to be very fun indeed.

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Miss Granger gave me her location before she left 'work'. I arrive a touch early and stride up the stairs, until I reach a landing where there are only two door across from each other, and a window, across from the stairs. The door on the right reads, 104: Miss Granger's flat.

Just as I take the final step up, her door opens and out steps a tall brunette. She turns to me expectantly. 'Hello . . .'

I'm wondering if I got the numbers wrong and the door I thought was Miss Grangers is actually this woman's. So, I ask, 'Does Hermione Granger live here?'

Her eyes widen to reveal too-blue irises. She nods energetically. 'Are you her date?'

I move to the door in question and knock, hoping she will take the hint and leave me alone as I'm clearly in some sort of hurry.

I must be too damn subtle for mortals.

She stands right behind me. I ignore her. She ignores my evasion. After a few excruciating seconds, she grabs my arm. I turn around and inwardly remind myself that this is probably one of Miss Granger's friends and if I am rude to them, at least the ones I am not familiar with, there could be hell to pay. More hell than she's going to be giving me later on this evening.

I give this woman the barely-patient look and ask, 'Yes?'

She sticks out her hand. 'I'm Ellen.' Her accent is clearly that of a Yank.

I take her hand. 'Delighted.'

'So, you are dating Hermione?'

Nosy bint. I wonder if she's told this Ellen of her plans. So I say, in complete truth, 'So it would seem.'

'Severus is a peculiar name. Where did your parents get it?'

'One of those child-naming books.'

'Really?'

'No. My mother had an unhealthy interest in Roman emperors.'

Nod. And silence. Then . . .

'How long have you known Hermione?'

And so begins the inquisition . . .

I reply, 'Eleven years.'

Her eyes widen and she gives off a small gasp. 'You've been dating _eleven_ years? Hermione never told me that.' I can see her doing the math mentally, trying to figure out my age in comparison to Miss Granger's eleven years ago. Then her mouth distorts into a half-grimace, half-ill expression. It's entirely too tempting to say that yes, we _had_ been dating eleven years. But I don't need Miss Granger any angrier at me than she will be. So I say, 'No, we weren't dating then; I was still her professor. It would have been against the rules along with every moral code there is.' As my thoughts are.

There is suddenly a wicked grin on her face. Eyes that yearn for gossip meet mine. 'So, there weren't any late-night "study sessions"?'

Before I can imagine having one such session with the woman in question, I snap, 'No.'

'Why not?' Damned persistent Yank. She reminds me of a young child, asking 'why' for every answer.

'I wouldn't take advantage of a student.' _Or a formal student, Severus. Or a formal student._

Pause. 'So, how _did_ you go from professor to lover?'

Shit. We hadn't discussed that and I didn't want my store clashing with my supposed girlfriend's. 'Erm . . .'

I don't have to think up something because she suddenly gasps (again. I'm wondering if she's short of breath?). 'Wait! I know you! She's talked about you before! Of course, I've also read the papers. You're Severus Snape, aren't you?'

Dear me, not another fan. _Please_ not another fan. Though, this is certainly an improvement on my normal demographic. I wouldn't mind a quick shag . . . though that would ruin my chances with Miss Granger—

What the fuck?! I don't _have_ chances and I'm certainly not going to try! I could just try to seduce this woman. I should! That's my problem: I'm so desperate for a shag I'm looking anywhere.

However, I realise I can't go to this woman as, according to her, I'm dating her friend. It would be v. unbecoming of me to hit on her . . . at this moment.

Oh, I should respond. 'I am.'

She nods. 'Yeah . . . I heard you're a real bastard.'

Ok, ­_not _a fan. 'You probably heard correctly.'

'You made student cry?' she asks incredulously.

'Frequently.' I cannot hide the trace of pride in my voice.

Her eyes narrow. 'I heard you were an unfair teacher.'

'In some—' _–all—_ '—opinions, I suppose I was.'

She goes silent again. So quiet, I think I might be released and start to turn. Then she asks—

'So tell me . . . have you guys ever acted out a fantasy where you give her detention and you guys shag on your desk?'

Ohh the images . . .

Suddenly a hand grabs my elbow and I barely hear 'Oh you're here, Professor! Come on in!' before I'm bodily thrown into the flat behind me. Miss Granger slams the door behind us.

Ohhhhh fuck. I'm in a load of Blast-Ended-Skrewt shit. There she stands her eyes . . . and legs. FUCK, she's looking very feminine. And the skirt, I must say, as all skirts are, is easy access. I sound sleazy but it's why men likes women in skirts and dresses: easy access.

You can probably figure out what the access is _to_.

And from there, my mind sinks. No matter how I fight, I still imagine her in that skirt . . . her _out_ of that skirt . . .

I then pull my attention back to reality to discover her looking at me expectantly. Fuck, she is talking to me. I study her face for signs of what she was saying. It all looks apologetic. And sympathetic. 'Oh, no, I'm fine. And no need to appologise. I was enjoying the challenge of her questions.' I am only guessing on the reason for her apology. But I appear to be correct as she doesn't press.

Nodding, she says, 'Right. Well, are you ready to go?' Then she promptly strides out. I don't miss the crimson on her cheeks.

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**A/N: I KNOW I said this chappie was going to be the date. But I couldn't fit it in here.**

**The part about STATURORY RAPE is my slight on the whole underage!Hermione fics there are.**

**NEXT chappie is the date. Also, I have two one-shots coming out. One is a short poem (angsty, DM/??) and the other, a longer juicy one (romance/general SS/HG)**


	7. Never with Potter

Disclaimer: Harry Potter etc. were created by J. K. Rowling and no one else. So, she like, owns them and is letting me use them for the short being (little does she know).

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_**Dear Calus,**_

_**My daughter is brilliant, gorgeous, and is going to go far. However, in her office, she dresses like a common prostitute you'd find at Knockturn Alley! She wears spiked heels and short skirts and low-cut blouses. I told her if she continued to dress in that manner, she'll go no where.**_

_**Mother of a ----**_

_Mother, _

_Is there a question there, somewhere?_

_Alright, I'm delighted to inform you that your daughter is a closet whore. She dresses that way and is more than likely sleeping with her boss, or his boss or higher. And you are wrong, if she's a slag, she'll go as far as the bit between her legs'll take her. _

_**Dear Calus, **_

_**My mum and dad threw me out of their house because I've been dating a bloke selling illegal potions and refused to break up with him. Well, after I was thrown out, he broke up with **_**me**_**. Now, I literally have nowhere to go and have been reading your article because the newspaper is what I've been using as a blanket. What do I do?**_

_**Homeless in Derbyshire**_

_Homeless, _

_Get a job._

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I can't miss the broad grin on Miss Winchester's on face at the sight of the pair of us. I glower at her, challenging her to say _anything_.

My former student is dressed in this horrid white catastrophe that clings to her like a parasite. Next to her is a man I've seen briefly around The Office with hair the colour of what is in his head: sand. He's staring down at her in that outfit as though it is all he can do not to tear her out of that 'gown' and shag her up against the stucco wall in front of which, they stand.

I know how he feels. _No, _I don't want to shag Miss Winchester, but Miss Granger. At that thought, I wrap my arm around my 'date' and flash her I'm-only-doing-this-to-fool-them smirk.

Which I've come to perfect.

Suddenly, a look of complete terror flickers across her face and I look in the direction of her gaze. Miss Winchester is bearing down on her like a hyena on a zebra. 'Lucy! Oh, you look lovely.' She beams at her 'beau'. 'Stephen, doesn't she look lovely?'

Looking as if he means it, _Stephen _replies, 'You do.' And Hermione—Miss Granger, thanks him. He might be brainless and have _horrid _taste in women, but he speaks the truth.

Lola, looking like Suzie Matchmaker, smiles at all of us. 'Stephen, this is my coworker and friend, Lucy. And her boyfriend Severus.'

After shaking Miss Granger's, Stephen shakes my hand. 'Severus _Snape_, correct? The bloke that saved us all? I have wanted to meet you terribly. When Lola here told me Lucy'd boyfriend was named Severus, I'd wondered if it was you.'

It's 'the bloke _who_ saved us all.' I don't correct his grammar however, and merely reply, to another _fan_ (it wouldn't surprise me in the least if he turns out to be a pouf), 'I hardly feel I saved 'you all' as I only did was Albus wanted and cast the Avada Kedavra.'

But he pushed on stubbornly. 'Oh, but you did more than that! You were a spy! A double agent—no, _triple_ agent! You leaked information from the Deatheaters to this "Order" while simultaneously leading Voldemort to believe that you were spying for him, and fooling the rest of the population into thinking the same.' Glowing like a worm, he turns to Miss Granger. 'Did he fool you as well?' She assents and he asks, interviewer-style, 'what was it like thinking your professor killed your headmaster?'

She doesn't reply at first as this look of memory flows over her face followed closely by a slight sadness. Then, coming alive, she replied non-committal, 'I was really surprised.'

Silence from the rest of us, as no one believes that is all she felt. Finally, breaking the lull, Miss Winchester makes mention of the lovely food inside and we walk in.

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We spend the entire night either listening to/watching the love-life of LolaandStephen or being inquired after _ours_. I answer most of the questions myself, while Hermione looks shock-stricken. She does surprise me by answering that they way she knew she was in love was by saying she fancied me as a student and the feeling grew as she got to know me.

The way she says it though . . . it's almost like it's true, or maybe that's my recently-over-reactive imagination.

The conversation drifts on to menial things. At one point, I glance down at Hermione and realise she's flushed and nervous-looking. I never realise why she looks that way even after Lola and Stephen excuse themselves to the dance floor and Miss Granger decides that we should too. I don't care at that point.

I stand up and hold out my hand, regency-style. 'Would you care to dance, Milady?'

She flushes again and takes my hand. Until she stops. 'I don't know how to dance.'

I assure her of the easiness of the dancing and I lead her to the floor. Awkwardly, we begin dancing. Apparently it's only awkward to me as Miss Granger looks positively delighted. 'I'm dancing!'

The look on her face nearly knocks the breath out of me. She's looking so delighted, and at _me, _that all is out of my head, save a faint buzzing. I shake the bees out and smirk, desperate to change the subject. 'Indeed. Now, I thought we could talk.'

'Are we breaking up?' she half-giggles.

I pause a moment to study her. Sure, I know she's just kidding but . . . I don't know. I've gone mad. I shake the thought away. 'No, actually, I wanted to talk about your reply to Stephen's question on how you knew you loved me.'

Looking quite proud of herself, she asks, 'Not bad, was it?'

'Any truth to it?'

She flushed again and I found myself entranced. Fascinated too that one could blush so easily. 'No.' her reply is simple and most likely true.

But we'll find out.

I look into her eyes and allow mine to relax, as though staring off into space. As I do, her pupils expand before me, opening so that I can see my reflection. Then, suddenly, I can't. There are vague image swimming around in there, that at first, look like they could be the flickering candles behind me. But aren't. I focus on them, relaxing my eyes further. Slowly, the image sharpens and becomes explicate. I can just make out the face but only because I've seen it recently. Mrs. Potter. I understand why Miss Granger blushed now. She probably got a bit of matchmaking from her as I did.

Her eyes widen but not from magic. She can feel me in her mind.

Why does that feel so intimate? Her being able to feel me? Other's have been able to. My mind didn't travel southward when Potter could feel me.

Ugh, the images.

Quickly, she drops her gaze and when she looks back up, Mrs. Potter's face is gone. 'Who is Calus?'

'Don't veer off topic.' Even though I'm thankful for the break.

She purses her lips. 'Well, you won't tell me and I want to know how I'm supposed to find out his identity without you telling me.' She says it in such a rush, she gasps slightly afterward.

'Now, Miss Granger, you know for a fact you will find out somehow, as when you initially began your investigation, you didn't know I was privy to the knowledge; you will just have to go at it as if I weren't here.' I reply.

'Could you at least give me a hint?' she presses. What terrifies me is that if she tried to use her 'feminine wiles' on me at the least (this includes even taking a step closer), she'd have me spilling every sordid tale in my possession.

'No.' I keep my head high, as though by standing taller than her, I am not powerless against her. Thank _Merlin_ she doesn't know this.

_Seriously, thank you. _

A moment of silence. Then, 'At least answer this: is his name actually Calus?'

Diplomatically, I reply, 'I will neither confirm nor disprove that question.'

She smiles suddenly.

Uh oh . . .

'Wait, if his _first_ name isn't Calus, is it his surname?'

My mind is working so sluggishly, I have to mentally remind myself that a surname is a last name. 'No.'

'What about his middle?'

Does she ever stop? 'Miss Granger, we are supposed to appear in love, not arguing.'

Unfortunately for me, she's much more brilliant than to accept my change-of-topic so easily. More unfortunate: She catches my attempt at keeping the truth from her. 'It _is_ his middle name!'

Oh, fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck_**fuck**_. Damn her smiling at me. I blame that completely. It's her damn fault. Or mental disease on my end. Hmmm that could be it. 'I didn't say that.' I tell her exposed shoulder.

She gives a small bounce. 'Oh, thank you, Severus!'

Shutupshutup_**shutup**_.

'Ok, is he tall, short, what?'

Luckily, I'm in the right state of mind to change the subject to a distracting one. Not-so-lucky: the subject change mirrors the state of mind I'm _in._ 'Will you marry me?'

Ohhhhh now's a good time for Bellatrix to break out of Azkaban and hex me for revenge.

And Gods, please, that wasn't a figure of speech.

She gawped. 'W-what?'

Despite my agony, I grin. 'It derailed you from Calus, didn't it?'

She frowns. 'You're mean.'

'What? Did you _want_ to marry me?'

_Please say yes; please say yes, pleasesayyes . . . _

SHUT THE FUCK UP! Severus Snape, you are sounding like a love-sick schoolgirl. Which you most certainly are not! Stop it!

I suddenly remember my small trip through her mind. Mrs. Potter.

(Insert evil maniacal laugh here)

'I would like to talk about something else as well. Miss Weasely, or Mrs. Potter if you will, visited me earlier today.'

Her emotions when from surprised to confused to horrified. 'She did?'

'It seems the two of you had a conversation earlier today? About me?'

Instead of getting angry, her head drops into my chest (a bit hard, but I am not complaining) and she groans.

(Insert perverted images here)

'What did she say?' asks the object of my current daydream.

'She told me that if I wanted a quick way to get you in my bed, all I would have to do would be to read you Jane Austen as that tends to put you in a romantic mood.'

I fail to mention my recent purchase of Pride and Prejudice.

'She also said that you are attracted to a man who can cook. Especially if they can make cheesecake.' I also fail to mention how fantastic of a chef I am. 'She went on to explain that you had this huge fear that you would make an odd noise during the act of lovemaking' –I barely manage to keep from calling it 'when we shag' instead of the act of lovemaking –' and once had a dream that you sounded like an elephant. She also said—'

Here she begs me to stop and I fail to let her know that her friend also told me she hated knuckle hair (?) and was still a virgin (shock? I think not). Also, Miss Granger apparently is turned on by long hair (YES!). It also appears Miss Granger won't do anything if there is an animal in the room.

_But I'm an animal in bed!_

Would you SHUT UP! Kindly?

I manage to keep the blood running through the head on my neck, and not the one below my hipbone and assure her that I won't tell anyone.

Lola and Stephen appear like fucking angels of holy saviour messengers, or whatever similar nonsense. Miss Winchester announces her need to empty her bladder, only in not so many words, and the two women trot off.

Stephen takes a seat and eyes me, wanting me to follow. All he wants to talk about is how his fiancé is my editor and I am lucky to have one so talented and on and on and how he is lucky too and is in love with her blah de fucking blah.

Suddenly, the ladies arrive and we both stand. Miss Winchester tells her beau that she's tired and I'm sickened to see that Stephen's eyes grow wide and worried.

Disgusting, until I notice Hermione's feet. Her feet which look like small explosions have gone on all over them. Suddenly, it's not so disgusting how Stephen acted. It's completely understandable. 'What the hell were you two doing in there?'

Apparently she hasn't noticed her feet if her gasp is anything to go by. However, she seems only half as alarmed and explains something about the shoes being the culprit and that she'll just take them off and pop home.

Is she mad??

She is because even when I assure her, repeatedly, that if she doesn't get the right medication (which I have) she'll be off her feet and in pain for days. She steadfastly refuses and finally, I can't take it. I pick her up.

'I'll have none of your Gryffindor arrogance. You're coming with me.'

When we arrive at Hogwarts, she protests, 'This isn't where I live. Why are we here?'

I remind her that I'm the sole occupant, among the pair of us, in possession of the treatment.

She gets quiet after that, and doesn't look at me or speak. I don't like that. So, to get her attention, I let go. I feel her arms immediately tighten around my neck, pressing her body to mine. Not that I notice.

I grin. She glares but doesn't release her grip.

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She's quiet the entire way to my quarters. But not from anger, more like contemplation.

Finally at the destination, I lighten to room and take her to my bed.

. . . And dump her on to it.

I know what I did and I _could_ have set her on there, but I fear touching her any longer would result in me following her onto the bed. This would result in a painful dismembering curse from her. This wouldn't be fun at all.

I like my member.

I have her take off her shoes. Working as quickly as possible, I silently apply the salves rubbing it into her blisters, feeling the familiar buzzing of the magic lick my fingers.

Then she quips, 'Professor? Are my feet supposed to be numb?'

Forgot that bit. 'For a few hours, yes. From the cleansing solution.'

The question she asks leads to more in my mind.

'How am I getting home?'

Which means, I either carry her home or she stays here.

Guess which one I want.

And surprisingly, she decides to stay here.

I realise that her dress is cinching up, revealing more of her thigh. If she stays in that, she could have her entire body bared, save for her undergarments. I hand her some of my things, the smallest and most elastic of boxer shorts and my smallest shirt. I tell her I'll return when she calls.

. . . And Merlin, do I regret it. Because I come in with her covering up, but not before I realise why women most commonly are in men's clothes, in their beds.

Yeah, post-coital.

(Coital, you idiots, means sex)

And that's where my mind decides it'll control my mouth. Before I can stop it, I hear myself say, 'I now have you right where I want you.'

WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!?!?!

Change subject, change subject CHANGE THE BLOODY SUBJECT!

'I think I will now tell you everything Mrs. Potter enlightened me of earlier.'

I let her beg for a bit and 'give in'. Then, I remind her to call if she needs me, meaning much more, I realise as I say it, then if she needs me for a glass of water or similar.

Not that I'm in 'love' with her or anything. The mere emotion is fictional.

Don't be preposterous.

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A/N: Sorry it sucks. I'm really not happy with it but feel I can do no better. Please, though, I can handle reviews.

**A S K / C A L U S / N E W S**

**For those of you who don't know yet, I'm going to rewrite Ask Calus. The ending will change, definitely. As for the rest, things'll be tweaked, mostly to incorporate Confessions of an Agony Aunt. But nothing major will change there (except my grammar. THAT needs some definite making-over) just some tweaking. And I'll probably make things better. I hope. It's mostly to get it up to par for Ashwinder.**

**SO! If anyone wants to help beta, please let me know. I can use multiples. No matter what your strength, of if you have none, I can use you.**

**Bwahahaha I'll use you.**


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